There is a place, shimmering in 80-degree heat, calling my name. Many would dismiss the spot as a seedy motel, just a place that time forgot. But to a frigid Red Sox fan, the Royal Palm Motel on Route 41 in Fort Myers, Fla., is as close to heaven as you can get, at least in March.

The “Palm” is a spot right out of the 1950s, with a microscopic swimming pool (one at a time) and an old-fashioned motor court with your vehicle parked right outside the door. It offers the toughest towels (dried on the pool fence) imaginable but is only a short, sunny walk to the ballpark where our beloved Red Sox hold their spring training each year.

There are better spots to stay, for sure. But at the Palm, the price is right and the regulars are all New England fugitives, Red Sox fans making their annual pilgrimage. The first year, 1991, we were adopted by the older guys who called us “the kids from Maine.” Every year, there was someone missing around the pool, someone who didn’t make it through the winter. Now the originals are all gone and we have become the old guys.

The very first prerequisite to be a lifetime Red Sox fan is a very short memory. In order to stay in it for the long haul, you must forget the details of previous disasters, such as when the Sox collapsed last year in August and September, after a typically promising start.

This is a whole new year. Around the tiny (one at a time) Royal Palm pool, the conversation among the thawing New England transplants is always about this year, the rookie coming up from the minors, the new center fielder. Hope springs eternal, every March.

Forget that the Red Sox have not won since 1918. If the Patriots can win the Super Bowl, anything can happen this year. Although it should be grounds for immediate committal to a place with thickly padded rooms, the comment is heard every spring training.

“This could be the year.”

Last year was the worst, with Mannie Ramirez over from Cleveland and Pedro Martinez headed for a certain 20-win, Cy Young Award season. Callers to talk shows were already arguing about the World Series pitching rotation – in April.

As usual, the Damn Yankees won the American League again.

This year we have been properly chastised. We realize that the Yankees, who went to the last out in last year’s World Series, have reloaded with first baseman Jason Giambi and pitcher David Wells, along with four or five other spare parts that are better than anything the Red Sox can offer.

But that is reality.

This is spring training.

For the month of March, we will bask in the Florida sun, make daily walks to the ballpark and dream our Red Sox dreams. We will sit in the magic Florida sun and feel our bones coming back to life. We will watch the lazy arc of an outfield fly and estimate the speed of Pedro’s last fast ball. We will find some rookie up from Pawtucket and all agree that he is the next Ted Williams. We will watch some 40-year-old retread pitcher throw 10 shutout innings in a row and predict greatness.

We will dare to dream that dream. This could be the year.

We will gaze up at the centerfield palm trees moving softly in the 80-degree breeze and we will think of Maine. Every spring-training game starts with the announcement of the temperature in Boston, always greeted by a cheer. When The Boston Globe arrives in the afternoon, the weather page is checked right after the sports page. Every morning starts with a check of the Weather Channel.

What good is it to be in Florida unless your neighbors are buried in a foot of new snow?

After the game, we will stroll back to the motel and face the hardest question of the day. Where should we eat? Ideally, the day should end with shrimp cocktail under the setting sun at the outdoor Riverwalk restaurant. A few players always drop by.

Then it’s back to The Palm and a cocktail by the pool and a planning session for the next day.

In the morning there will be baseball.

And after all, this could be the year.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara

@msn.com.